


i'm seeing clearly now (there's no turning back)

by anyamorozova, AriMarris



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cath and Lan Fan are useless lesbians, CathLan, F/F, Figure Skater Catherine Elle Armstrong, Ice Skating, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Musician Catherine Elle Armstrong, Musician Lan Fan, Songwriting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyamorozova/pseuds/anyamorozova, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriMarris/pseuds/AriMarris
Summary: “Please, just tell me– are you alright?”She truly doesn’t know what to say to Lan Fan. She’s not alright, not at all– but there are no words for the loneliness that’s opened in the pit of her stomach like a wide, yawning chasm. There are no words to describe the realization that’s finally dawning.In a train full of people, she’s never felt more alone.“I don’t know how I feel.” she finally admits, leaning against Lan Fan’s shoulder. “I don’t know at all.”Or,Five times Catherine struggles to express her feelings, and one time she realizes she doesn't have to.
Relationships: Catherine Elle Armstrong & Olivier Mira Armstrong, Catherine Elle Armstrong/Lan Fan
Comments: 26
Kudos: 13





	1. the trip back home

**Author's Note:**

> introducing our favorite new otp to archiveofourown: CathLan! <3

The train ride home from Central City is quiet. Catherine leans her face against the window, savoring the coolness of the frosty glass against her throbbing cheek. Even so, she’s sure there’s still a mark– the ghost of an angry red handprint lingering, all five fingers branding her as a _failure_ for the entire world to see. 

She’s grateful it hadn’t happened in front of the cameras. She was spared, at least, that shame. But her mother would have never sunk so low, no matter what Catherine had done– never would have risked breaking the perfect family façade she’d spent so many years cultivating. Not even when it was obvious that Catherine hadn’t _fallen_ , like she’d been forced to tell her coach. Not even when the shape of her own palm was etched across her daughter’s face, complete with a jewel of blood decorating the ring finger. 

_What the hell are you doing out there?! How could you do this to me, to us? How could you be such an embarrassment?_

Catherine remembers staring as red had dripped from her cheek onto her fingers, her feet, staining the perfect white of her skates. Years of poisoned words and whispered malice finally culminating into one furious slap, the first and final. One single, damning piece of evidence. One last mother’s touch. 

Is it selfish to hope it scars?

“Hey.” The world comes back into focus as Lan Fan’s knee bumps against her own. “Are you okay, Cath?”

She blinks a few times to clear the fog from her head. It doesn’t work. “Mmm-hmm.” she hums. “Just tired.” But the flatness of her voice instantly gives away her lie, and she can feel Lan Fan shift in response next to her. Her girlfriend presses closer, putting a comforting arm around Catherine’s shoulders. She’s grateful for it.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.” 

“I know,” Catherine sighs. Her head is heavy, almost numb from the events of the day. The adrenaline rush of skating competitions always leaves her drained, but this… this is exhaustion on a completely different level. She struggles to get the words from her head to her tongue. “I just… She never taught me how to do anything _but_ pretend.” 

“I understand. I’m sorry.” Lan Fan says quietly. Both of them can feel the weight behind those last two words. Cath’s stomach twists. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

Her girlfriend avoids her gaze. Catherine can see the guilt on her face, and it makes her want to cry. “If I hadn’t been there, she–”

“ _Stop it._ ” Catherine chokes out, throat tight with emotion. “Stop, please, just… this wasn’t your fault.” 

_You just couldn’t keep it quiet, could you? You couldn’t even do one thing for me. For your family._

Lan Fan’s eyes go wide. “But I–” 

“ _No._ ” she insists, and her voice steels over. She won’t debate, not about this. “It would have happened. You’ve seen her with Olivier, you know how she feels about this. It would’ve happened at some point. She would have seen us. At home, or at school, or...”

“Olivier can still go home.” Lan Fan points out quietly. “Olivier was never _hit._ ”

As if in response to her girlfriend’s words, Cath’s cheek throbs. “Yeah, well,” Catherine lifts her head up, tries to put on a grin, just like her mother always told her to. Smile through the pain. “Olivier _can’t_ say she’s had a girlfriend. She’s missing the best part.”

Lan Fan bites her lip, frowning a little. “Cath, this is serious. She _hurt you_ , and you won’t talk about it, and I–” she breaks off, and for a split second it sounds like she’s choked up. About to cry. But then she’s reaching out to touch Cath’s face, eyes sharp again as she rubs her thumb across the bruise on her cheekbone. “Please, just tell me– are you alright?”

She truly doesn’t know what to say to Lan Fan. She’s not alright, not at all– but there are no words for the loneliness that’s opened in the pit of her stomach like a wide, yawning chasm. There are no words to describe the realization that’s finally dawning: that she can never look her mother in the eyes again, never hug her brother again, never go home again.

That she’s been _disowned_. 

_You’re not my daughter. Not anymore._

In a train full of people, she’s never felt more alone. 

“I don’t know how I feel.” she finally admits, leaning against Lan Fan’s shoulder. “I don’t know at all.”

Lan Fan doesn’t respond at first. Besides the ever-present clattering of the train against tracks, it’s quiet. But Catherine doesn’t mind it, not with her. There’s a sort of comfort that comes from her silence; it’s a sign that she’s listening and understanding, letting you speak. Giving you space to feel. 

After a few moments, Lan Fan starts to hum.

Music– it’s how they communicate when nothing else seems to work. When words and conversation are too slow and troublesome. One of them starts a beat, feet tapping or humming a melody. The other sings along, creating lyrics from anything– sights, sounds, smells, _feelings._

All she needs are words.

Catherine has dozens of words in her mind, words that have been building and building since she first stepped off of the rink, finding Lan Fan’s eyes and feeling like they were the only two people in the world. Words she wanted to scream when her mother’s hand came down across her face mere moments later, penance for her sins recieved in the dark of the arena hallways; words that had withered and died when her parents turned their backs and walked away.

Words she now decides to sing. 

“ _The trip back home is lonelier,”_ she dares to breathe, no louder than a whisper. “ _T_ _he road stretches on forever.”_

Lan Fan’s nodding along to her words, somehow hearing her over the quiet roar of the train and the rushing wind outside. It’s her girlfriend’s assurance that gives her the courage to sing louder, truer, _“And it’s times like these I wish I had a hand to hold.”_

The pain she’s learned to lock away starts to stir. Unfamiliar and heavy, it makes her heart tremble as she continues.

_“I wish I had a hand to hold,_ ” she repeats, and her voice starts to shake. “ _I_ _wish I had your hand to hold.”_

She feels the gentle pressure of Lan Fan’s littlest finger against hers– their silent promise that everything will be okay, and that she is not alone. Never alone. Without hesitation, she hooks their pinkies together. Lan Fan’s finger around hers is the smallest touch, but it’s grounding. She doesn’t know what she’d do without it.

She hopes she never has to find out.

Lan Fan stops humming for the briefest moment. Without words, she lifts their conjoined hands and presses Catherine’s knuckles, cracked and dry from cold rink air, to her lips. “My hand is always yours to hold.” 

For the rest of the trip, neither one lets go.


	2. burn

Catherine’s fingers ghost across the cool ivory keys. Up, then down, and finally coming to rest over middle C, falling into the position that had been trained into her since her youth. By habit, she straightens her back and takes a deep, unwavering breath. She can do this. 

As her fingers dance across the keys, a simple melody fills the air. Something soft, easy to follow. She repeats the bars until her fingers fall into the pattern. She turns her focus to the words scribbled into her notebook and tries to fit them into tune.

“ _ I wish I could say _ ,” she starts, and immediately winces. She wants to slam her hands down on the keyboard but forces herself to continue. She waits until the repeat and tries again. “ _ I wish I could say _ –,” it’s a little better, barely an improvement, “ _ that it’s been a day since I last dreamed of you. _ ” 

She hits the last note a little too hard in her frustration. It doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t even  _ feel _ right. She doesn’t  _ dream _ of them and what they did. If they appear to her while she sleeps, it’s in the nightmares that cause her to wake on the edge of tears. 

Catherine pulls her notebook into her lap and scratches out the lyrics she had written. 

“ _ I wish I could say... that it’s been a day since I... _ .” She half sings, half hums under her breath as she tries to find the words to her song. “ _ Since I.... last thought of you. _ ” That feels better. It’s true too, in the way they linger in the back of her mind. “ _ But you’re there when I turn, and you’re here when I sing. I wish I could burn–, _ ” Catherine swallows hard. Does she wish she could burn it all away? Let years of memories turn to ash? Sometimes. “ _ I wish I could burn...  _ Burn, burn... burn what? _ ”  _

It takes all the restraint Catherine possesses to not throw the notepad across the room. Instead she slams it closed, sets it aside and huffs in frustration. 

“Are you planning on burning the apartment down? I don’t think your sister will be too pleased.” 

Her girlfriend’s teasing question is a refreshing break from her infuriating attempt to create something that has any trace of emotion. It wasn’t easy, considering her emotionally stunted upbringing. 

“No,” Catherine says, falling back dramatically and sprawling across the antique duet piano stool. Her head drops off the edge, her blonde hair cascading around her face and fanning out over the floor. When she opens her eyes, Lan Fan is leaning against the doorframe in her pajamas, upside down and smirking. She still looks half asleep. “Too many good memories here.” 

“Yeah?” the smirk is replaced with a soft smile. “If you change your mind, I know a guy.” 

Catherine laughs, short and sweet. She knows  _ exactly _ who Lan Fan is talking about and she also knows Lan Fan is not joking. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promises. She’s can’t deny that the offer wasn’t at least a little tempting. At this moment in time, it would be rather gratifying to watch that stupid mansion burn. Let it turn to ash. As if erasing the domain of her distress could expunge the  _ memories _ that are so deeply a part of her that they seem to be etched into her bones. The burden of them aches. 

“How long have you been at this, anyway?” 

“A while.” She hadn’t checked the time but it had been before the sun rose, at the very least. Now, the sun flooding through the windows is probably what had woken Lan Fan. 

“Have you had breakfast?” 

Catherine’s face falls into a pout. Of course she hadn’t. She had been too busy with the emotional obstruction she had inherited from her parents. She doesn’t think Lan Fan would be satisfied with that answer, though. She chooses not to reply. Instead, Catherine whines, extending her arms towards Lan Fan and making grabby hands. With a well disguised snort, Lan Fan decides to humour her. She sits cross legged with her lap beneath Catherine’s head, lifting her hair into her lap. She combs her fingers through the sunshine locks without thinking, her fingers snagging on the occasional knot. 

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” She finally asks, after a minute that felt like an eternity. Catherine thinks its a blessing and a curse that Lan Fan sees through her so easily. 

“I....” As always, Catherine struggles to find her words. They’re there, just out of reach behind the thorny wall of emotions she was never taught to navigate. “I can’t make sense of any of it. My mother never taught me to make sense of my emotions... Just to repress them. To show anything that didn’t present us as the perfect family was unacceptable... I just want to understand how I feel.” 

Lan Fan’s eyes are carefully devoid of emotion, but Catherine has known her girlfriend long enough to see behind the trained indifference. There is a fury, a pain, a frustration– all the emotions Catherine herself can’t bring herself to embrace. 

“This is still new,” she says after a moment of thought. “You can’t be expected to understand everything you’re feeling right now.” 

“Mhmm...” Catherine reaches out and catches one of the hands combing through her hair, intertwining their fingers together and resting their joined hands on her shoulder. “I want to be– I am mad at them. I’m furious. I’m supposed to be, right?” Catherine mutters. She hates the way tears of frustration prick at her eyes. It’s a weakness, they had told her, to cry when angry or upset. It makes her want to cry just to spite them. And yet she  _ can’t _ . “I keep thinking maybe, if I put it in a song or at least words, I might have some chance of making sense of the way I feel.” 

Lan Fan squeezes her hand. “You’re upset that they hurt you, that’s natural.” 

“But there has to be more to it. This... it’s not just anger.” 

“Of course there’s more.” Lan Fan’s free hand abandons Catherine’s hair in favour of cupping her face. Catherine leans into the touch as Lan Fan’s thumb strokes her cheek in slow, gentle movements. “You love them, Cath. After everything, they’re still your family and you can’t change that. It’s not just anger. It’s betrayal and sadness, too.” 

Catherine’s grip on Lan Fan’s hand tightens as though she is, in that moment, a lifeline. “I just want to make sense of it all.” 

“You will. Eventually. You have time, Cath.” 

Catherine offers a small smile in exchange for the words of reassurance. 

“Thank you, love,” she murmurs, so softly that Lan Fan might not have been heard had she been any father away. 

Lan Fan doesn’t say a word in reply, just leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Catherine’s eyes flutter shut. 

For just a moment, this moment, in peaceful silence with the love of her life, she can forget. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another special thank you to Liam for letting us run with his ship idea.... These two girls have become a fave of mine. 
> 
> If you wanna ship CathLan with us or talk about FMA in general, feel free to join our discord server: https://discord.gg/EmrPHwC


	3. everything I want to be

Catherine’s sister is twenty-two years her senior. 

While Catherine was being born, Olivier was in her fourth year at the prestigious college that all of the Armstrongs attended. A month after Catherine’s first birthday, Olivier joined the military. When Catherine was five, Olivier had come home for a cursory two weeks. It was her first leave from duty and she had been forced to take it by her superiors. 

It had been, at the time, the most interesting two weeks of Catherine’s life. 

First off, it had been as if her parents had invited a complete stranger to stay with them. Being the youngest of five children, it’s not as though she’d ever been close with any of her siblings. Even her brother, Alex, the closest to her in age, was still over ten years older than her. But Olivier was _different_. Held at an arm's length from the rest of the family, all Catherine knew of her sister before that visit was only enough to recognize her face from old family portraits. 

Secondly, Olivier herself didn’t seem to be interested in interacting with the rest of her family, Catherine included. The time she spent at the house was brief at best, as she seemed to prefer being anywhere but the estate. When home, her interactions with their parents were stiff and straightforward, polite but frigid. Only once had she given in to their father’s demands and sat with them for dinner. It was the night before she left, and the entire family had been there. This in itself was a rare occasion, even if you chose to exclude Olivier from the head count. Despite this, Catherine had never attended such a bleak dinner in her entire life. It felt as though Olivier had personally dragged an ice storm into their dining hall, straight from the Briggs fortress she had been stationed at. 

Catherine hadn’t understood it at the time. No one expected a five year old to discern why exactly Olivier refused to acknowledge their parents’ pointed remarks or answer their snippy questions, and no one bothered to explain it, either. At the time, all Catherine had known was the indisputable truth that was her parents’ word. To see someone– her own sister– defy it so blatantly, well... it had been the first clue in her young life that something wasn’t quite right. That things weren’t as perfect as her family tried to present. 

Olivier left the next morning without saying goodbye and it would be a good many years before Catherine would see her again. Six years, to be exact. 

As they do, memories fade. Over those long six years, Catherine’s memory of her sister– strong, bold, defiant– was whittled away by the ghosts of rumours that clung to the walls of their estate until it was nothing but a skeleton. Her parents built upon those fragile bones, snippets of gossip and lingering whispers layering like paper-mâché until she was left with an amalgamation of exaggerated lies and half truths wearing her sisters face. 

But the thing about paper-mâché is that if you get it wet enough, it’s sure to fall apart. 

Just a few weeks before Catherine’s eleventh birthday, Olivier came back to town. It was their sister’s wedding and Olivier looked like there were a thousand places she’d rather be. Based on the phone call Catherine had overheard between her mother and eldest sister, filled with pleading (guilt tripping, Catherine would later recognize) on one end and cool indifference from the other, that wasn’t a wrong assumption. Still, she showed and Amue and the rest of the family put on a wonderful performance of being grateful for her presence. Catherine, ever the dutiful daughter, played along. 

It didn’t hurt that Olivier seemed to be every bit the person Catherine had been taught to see her as. She was shrewd, intelligent, cold and had a complete disregard for her parents’ wishes. Against their mother’s demands, Olivier had shown up to the wedding in a _suit_ . A _suit!_ Catherine didn’t know why this was such a big deal, but it quickly became the biggest scandal of the wedding. Their mother refused to let her be in any of the wedding photos. 

_“What will people think?”_ She tutted disapprovingly, backed by a hum of agreement from their father. Unlike their mother, he refused to so much as look at Olivier. Instead, he glared past her with his mouth pulled in a tight line. “ _We just can’t have... evidence of your little phase. You understand?”_

For all the fuss their mother made, Olivier didn’t seem too put out to be watching from the sidelines. Perhaps she had planned it this way, knowing her mother would exclude her from the photos and thus free her from three consistent hours of her fretting and nitpicking. If Olivier had expected this to continue through the night, however, she was sorely mistaken. 

It was jarring, to say the least, to see her mother drag Olivier every which way at the reception later that night. In a complete one-eighty from how she treated Olivier in private, their mother spent the entire dinner boasting to anyone who would listen. 

“ _Just thirty-three and making Major General,”_ her mother praised, her hand firmly resting in the crook of Olivier’s elbow. The more attentive groups reappraised Olivier and offered their congratulations. “ _Youngest woman to ever achieve such ranks at her age. The president was there to personally congratulate her on the promotion. Why, I’ll bet she’ll be the youngest to make General. Our dear Olivier has never shied from such challenges.”_

“You must be proud,” they always replied robotically, as if out of obligation. It always made Catherine a bit uncomfortable to hear that complete lack of sincerity in their voices. “None of your children disappoint, do they? That’s a lot to live up to for your youngest.” 

Catherine wanted to duck and hide, or even run, at that moment. Half a dozen pairs of eyes locked onto her at her mother’s side. Her heart fluttered about her chest as she forced a polite smile onto her face, just the way her mother taught her. 

“Catherine plays the piano,” her father cuts in, before she has the chance to say anything in response. There is a hum of approval from the ever expanding sea of eyes that stared her down. “Her teacher tells us she’s a natural. I believe it’s only a matter of time before she’s impressing us with compositions of her own.” 

This is the first time that Catherine could remember being the subject of her parent’s praise. She stood a little straighter, smiled a little wider. 

“Oh, you should hear her play, actually–” all the good feelings disappeared in an instant as Catherine followed her mother's eyes to the grand piano that sat to the side of the ballroom. “Catherine, go play something.” 

“Mother, I’ve never...” Catherine had never played in front of other people before. She didn’t think she _could_ play in front of everyone. What if she screwed up and made a fool of herself? Of her _family_ – her mother would be so upset with her. She looked up at her mother and, as quietly as she could, begged, “Please, mother, I can’t–“

“Nonsense,” she snipped, “Amue will be so pleased that you played for her wedding.” 

Before she knew it, Catherine found herself seated on the cool leather plush of the piano stool, staring blankly at the keys. The music that had previously filled the room died out as all eyes turned to her. They bore into her and she tried her best to ignore them as the panic continued to set in. What should she play? Everything felt so far away, every melody unattainable and doomed to fail. Did she even know _how_ to play piano? The keys beneath her fingers felt entirely unfamiliar.

The tears started before she could process what was happening. A single streak down her cheek turned into a flood, and she wanted to run–

There was a gentle thud as someone settled down on the piano bench next to her. Her hands leap across the keys, bursting into an energetic melody as Catherine remained frozen. 

“Don’t waste your tears,” Olivier barked at her, just quiet enough that only she would hear. Catherine’s snivelling came to a sudden halt at the words. She thinks those may have been the first words that Olivier ever said _directly_ to her. She sounded _exactly_ like their mother. But there was something different about the way Olivier said it. “It is unbecoming of an Armstrong.” 

Catherine sniffles and wipes at her eyes. 

“Do you enjoy playing piano?” 

Catherine was taken off guard by the question. No one had ever bothered to ask her if she actually enjoyed it– it was never something she had been given the option to consider. But now that she had, she bit her lip and gave a hesitant nod. “Y-yeah.” 

“Speak up!” Olivier snapped with all the force of a Major General. Catherine jumped at the words, sitting ramrod straight as she answered Olivier with more certainty. 

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” 

Catherine decided to risk a peek at Olivier. She glared ahead as she continued to play with ruthless determination, never once sparing a glance at Catherine. For just a moment, so brief Catherine believed she imagined it, there was a hint of a smile on her lips. 

“You owe them nothing,” Olivier told her. The composition - Chopin’s Ocean, Catherine recognizes - is coming to an end. Olivier’s words were drowned out to all but her in the final notes of the song. “Not your tears, not your loyalty, not your music. If you play, it’s because you want to. So I’ll ask again, does playing piano make you happy?” 

The song ended and the room filled with polite applause. Catherine set her jaw and mustered up all the determination that a ten year old Armstrong could. 

“Yes, I love music! I love playing piano!” 

Catherine did not imagine Olivier’s smile when she finally looked at her. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, as Catherine expected, but they also held _mercy_ , understanding. “Then try to keep up.” 

Olivier didn’t hesitate to leap headfirst into the next song and after a moment of processing what was happening and another to recognize the tune, Catherine jumped in after her. 

Unlike Olivier’s previous piece, this was soft and Catherine identified it immediately as _Clair de Lune_. She was grateful Olivier had chosen a classic. Catherine had been playing this song for years and it showed. Her fingers danced across the keys as she fell into the rhythm and slowly but surely lost herself in the music.

Catherine didn’t notice when Olivier withdrew, or even when she left the bench. She unconsciously moved to fill the space left, just as the music– _her music_ – filled the room. 

It struck her then, as she played, that she _did_ enjoy playing the piano, really. She loved the way the keys felt beneath her fingers, the beautiful melodies she could create, the feeling the music gave her... the way it filled her heart and surrounded her with a feeling of warmth. It felt as though it was just her and the music, and for a moment, that was all she needed.

* * *

Years later, Catherine finds herself at the piano once again. It’s nearly midnight and in the empty apartment, loneliness becomes an ineluctable cage that keeps her from eating, from sleeping, from functioning. She’s still not used to being here, in Olivier’s unnecessarily large apartment. At least, not alone. Before she had been disowned, she had slept over once in a while, on the nights her family grew to be too much, or even just to keep Olivier company (not that the Ice Queen would ever admit she enjoyed it). It’s different now. Before, she had a house and family to return to, a place to call _home_. This place, even with her own room, was not yet that. 

When Lan Fan leaves for the night, she can’t sleep. She knows she can’t expect Lan Fan to stay with her all the time– that’s just unreasonable, when Lan Fan has her own family and things to deal with. Just because Catherine is going through a rough patch doesn’t mean she gets to take up all of Lan Fan’s time and energy. 

Having resigned herself to a sleepless night, Catherine sits at the grand piano and stares at the keys. Her fingers skim across the board but she cannot force herself to play. 

Catherine can feel her eyes water in frustration but she blinks them back, refusing to cry. After all these years, Olivier’s words still echo in her mind. She was never particularly great with putting her feelings into lyrics, but this was _worse_. All of her recent attempts at playing had ended in failure, jarring collisions of mangled chords. It did nothing but frustrate her and now she sat here, afraid to play. 

Nonetheless. An Armstrong does not shy from such challenges. An Armstrong does not give up when things get difficult. Even disowned, Catherine is a proud Armstrong. Her mother cannot take that away from her, just as she could not take that from Olivier. 

_Olivier_. 

Catherine wishes she knew what to think of Olivier, she really does. She knows she loves her. She has since the day she sat down next to her on that cold, lonely piano bench and asked Catherine what she wanted. It’s a distant memory now, but it’s one that Catherine holds dear. In a single moment like none she had ever experienced, she had seen how much Olivier really cared about her. Since that day, she had come to look up to Olivier, admire her. If she was doing what she believed Olivier would do, she could believe she was making the right choice. 

And now... 

And now she was disowned, could never go home. Olivier could, if she ever bothered to leave that stupid fort, leave her precious military for even a day. 

The anger and frustration bubbles out and she slams down on the keys. She expects an abhorrent coalescence of notes and that’s exactly what she gets. To her surprise, however, it’s satisfying. Fun, even. 

She does it again. 

And again. 

There’s no one here to hear her slam out all her feelings. No one to yell at. She’s not keeping anyone up. No one but herself and–

“Is that really how you’re going to treat my belongings while I’m away? I might have to take your keys away.” 

Olivier’s voice cuts through the air. Catherine’s hands go still, frozen and hovering a fraction of an inch over the keys. Olivier did _not_ tell her she was coming home. Not that she _had_ to, Catherine supposes. It was Olivier’s apartment, after all. 

The front door slams shut and Catherine could hear Olivier march towards the living room. She appears in the doorway seconds later, looking the most dishevelled Catherine had ever seen her. Which, to be fair, outside of a few stray hairs and a military uniform that appears to have been slept in, isn’t that much. 

Catherine turns her eyes away from Olivier defiantly. There’s a part of her that just _aches_ when face to face with her sister. 

“What are you doing here?” Catherine asks. She glares straight ahead, just as Olivier does when she doesn’t want to deal with other people’s bullshit. Catherine wonders if she imagines burning holes in the walls as well. 

“It’s my apartment, do I need a reason to be here?” Olivier’s voice is as piercing as always. Catherine forces herself to keep her glare steady, to not give in or flinch at the tone. She refuses to show weakness to the only family she has left. 

“But Briggs-” 

“Will survive without me if I need to take leave,” Olivier cuts her off smoothly. She settles on the seat next to Catherine, who is suddenly overcome with a wave of nostalgia. Her fists clench in her lap. “Alex told me what Mother did to you.” 

Catherine swallows hard. Of course the news would have reached Olivier sooner than later. Catherine isn’t so stupid as to expect otherwise, and the fact that Alex was the one to deliver was not surprising. She herself had been trying to work up the courage to tell Olivier herself but every text, every attempt at a phone call... She could never go through with it. 

Catherine knows Olivier might be the only other person to understand how she feels. Both of them were given impossible expectations, told to grin and bear it and deny who they truly are for the sake of the Armstrong image. Olivier still plays this game, dancing on the edge of what their parents see as inappropriate and respectable. Would Olivier think she’s a failure for getting disqualified? 

“I...” Catherine starts. She has so much she wants to say, to yell, to cry. No words escape her lips. 

“You can stay here,” Olivier tells her. There is a surge of relief, however small, that fills Catherine. “You’re old enough to be on your own but I’ll give you Miles’ number should there be any emergencies.” 

Catherine realizes with a start that Olivier is _worried_ about her. Not disappointed, not angry, not betrayed. She did not come home to yell at her and lecture her but rather to be there for her. 

Catherine slumps against her sister, her entire form going lax as Olivier tenses at the contact. She buries her face in stiff blue fabric of Olivier’s sleeve and hides the small, weak smile that creeps over her lips. “Thank you.” 

Olivier does not answer and the two sit in a long, drawn out silence. 

When the quiet grows to be too much, too heavy, Olivier begins playing a soft melody. The piano’s song and Olivier’s presence combined soothe Catherine’s mind. She squeezes her eyes tight and allows these two small comforts to carry her away. 

As she relaxes, words float through her mind, lyrics that fit in nicely with the melody. Catherine does not sing them but instead repeats them in her mind again and again, wishing she could stay like this forever. 

_I know what I do is up to me_

_but you're everything I wanna be_

_how do I change_

_and how do I live_

_without you here next to me_


End file.
